


Blood, Skein, Black

by Necronon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Blood and Gore, Cybernetics, Disturbing Themes, Gaslighting, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Manipulation, Massage, Murder, Mutilation, Outer Space, Prosthesis, Pseudoscience, Psychological Horror, Slow Burn, Team Sassy Science (Hannibal), Touch-Starved Will, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Weird Biology, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-01-22 04:05:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12473092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Necronon/pseuds/Necronon
Summary: Will doesn't believe in the machine super-ego and sentient synthetic. Meanwhile, unit B5160-8 becomes self-aware.





	1. One Missing

**Author's Note:**

> If you see major grammatical issues, yell at me here or over on my [tumblr.](https://thenecronon.tumblr.com/) Or just say hello.

The elevator doors clicked into place, all sound expunged except for the steady hum of machination. The farther Will descended into the vessel’s belly, the louder the drive core: a colossal engine inaudible from the insulated upper decks. The sole of the penultimate deck buzzed beneath his heels when he stepped out of the elevator, long corridor ahead bereft of the milling civilians that crowded the common areas. Its bulkheads were bare plexi-steel, facets and seams exposed. There’s no need for opulence here, unlike the gilded saloons and trussed cabins of the administrative quarters. It was dark, striped with piping. Fans turned lazily in the mouths of air ducts: convenient freeways for the massive rats whose brittle bones shattered in the gravity back home. He saw them prowling, red eyes that appeared and disappeared around corners or behind beams.

Will Graham was staffed in Engineering, but neither his pay grade nor his clearance reflected the occupation. His Class 2 ID, reserved for agents of the Federal Bureau of Intergalactic Investigations and above, admitted him to most of the _Quantico_ —a much broader territory than his colleagues—and he had his own private bay. He preferred it there, surrounded by automatons and sipping synthetic coffee made only slightly more tolerable by a shot of whey and rotgut. A real Irish coffee was several parsecs away. He hadn't been planet-side in three years, and fresh cream wasn't exactly long-haul friendly. Whiskey was easy enough to get at ports or through trade. He didn't mind; he liked the privacy. Personal space was a commodity, and Will enjoyed a disproportionate square footage.

It was _usually_ cathartic work.

He was reminded why he was afforded the privilege when he scanned his badge and stepped into his work bay to find an unscheduled SU perched in one of his examination cubicles. Synthetic units were fairly common aboard military and federal vessels, as well as the cruisers of wealthy benefactors and politicians.

The transparent bay doors _vvvhhhp_ ed shut behind him as its head slowly pivoted to regard him, dark eyes shining like marbles in the ambient light of indicators speckling the nearby hub. Its silvery hair created a halo beneath the harsh glare of the automated work light above. _Like the rats,_ he thought. _A big, blonde rat._ Will pressed forward, fingers twitching at his side.

He got the aberrant units, the ones with anomalies in their code and behavior—but this was his first time diagnosing a T5 model, anomalous or otherwise. Will suppressed a shudder as he stepped up to the unit, and it tracked his movement, absent of all those little tics and tells of musculature, of humanity and intent. Unlike their predecessors, the T5s were capable of flawless mimicry, from the subtleties of motor function to articulating speech patterns. The unit before him now would be indistinguishable from a human being were it not running in MOM (Minimal Operations Mode): a safety feature installed after multiple incidents of AWOL and hijacked units. SUs belonging to the brass were frequent targets of cyber terrorism. Deviation in the newer models had been particularly problematic. The incorporation of organics had spearheaded the creation of the newest SUs, but complex components invited unpredictability.

Will pushed up his glasses and fetched his PDA, the screen flooding the dim space with serene blue. He walked behind the idle unit as he scrolled through invoices. A notification blinked at him beside a high-priority request: one ticket for a T5 SU. Here he was hoping it was an oversight. Will took a moment to resign himself to the uncomfortable work ahead, drew a deep breath, then began.

“Identification number and name,” he asked, glancing over the frames of his glasses at the SU’s collar. He studied the weave of the synth’s standard-issue jumper instead of looking into its unblinking eyes. The reinforced shoulders and elbows were of a less porous fabric and reflective. The added bulk, though minimal, made the already tall SU more imposing.

“IN B5160-8. Lecter, Hannibal.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“Lithuanian.”

“Why Lithuanian? What’s wrong with _Joe_?”

“My commissioner was Lithuanian. I’m sorry. In MOM, I cannot execute a comprehensive query on _Joe_.”

“Uh, never mind.” _Maybe not so cutting-edge._ “You’re under federal jurisdiction now. Where is your commissioner?”

“He is dead.”

Will shifted his weight to the other leg as his empathy niggled him—the obligation to express compassion—but B5160-8 wasn't human. It didn't feel remorse. Will’s empathy was never stirred by SUs, so he’s a little surprised at his response to the machine. _Aren’t you kind of aberrant too?_ he heard his division chief say. _You’re just the man I need for these cases._ _It’s all here. Interpret the evidence, Will._

And now the evidence was a T5.

“Assignments?”

“I have been approved for work in hydroponics, maintenance, communications, navigation, D1 galley, D2 gall—”

“You cook?” Will glanced up from the screen of his PDA, brow arched so that deep lines cut across his forehead.

“I assist Chief Cook Williams and Ortega.”

“Quite the resume. Williams has gone missing recently.” Will waited, but when Hannibal didn't provide an explanation, he prompted: “You worked with Williams. Kind of strange, missing persons on a ship. Even one this large. Not too many places to hide. What do you know?”

“Please specify.”

“About Williams.”

“Please specify.”

“Williams’ _disappearance_ ,” Will snapped.

“The investigation has yielded no leads.”

“What’s your opinion of Williams?”

“MOM limits my operations to data parsing and statistics. I do not—”

“Fine.” Will set down his PDA and adjusted the work light above with a snap of his wrist. “Let’s get you back online, before I lose my damned patience.”

“Protocol requires all aberrants remain in minimal operations mode until—”

“I read the manual, B5160-8, thanks.”

T5 SUs were visually indistinguishable from their fellow man. Officially for military recon, but less palatable purposes had created a demand for pirated units on the black market. Ethics aside, T5s were seamless; he’d have to cut the tissue along Hannibal’s back to override MOM. For security, aberrant units were impossible to access wirelessly.

He pulled down the zipper along the back of Hannibal’s jumper, pausing halfway. It was unsettling. The synthetic flesh looked so real, gave beneath the firm press of his fingers. There were even painstaking little details, a mole and smattering of freckles, that Will knew were unique to Hannibal. He’d read about the lengths the developers had gone to lend their precious T5s lifelike individuality. Perfect imperfections. It wasn't quite the same as popping the hatch on an older model, that was for sure. It felt... intimate. It wasn't . . . of course it isn’t, but embarrassment still settled in his gut as he bared Hannibal’s back, down to the tail of his spine. He idly wondered when the last time was he saw someone naked that wasn’t in a vid, but he can’t remember.

The scalpel cut through the synthetic tissue easily. It looked like he’s slicing up someone’s back, a person’s back, until cloudy fluid dribbled out around his blade and down the nodules of Hannibal’s spine. Will mopped up the worst of it and, before tossing it aside, compulsively sniffed the rag he’d used. No coppery odor, but something more akin to new ship smell. Fresh upholstery. Maybe rainfall. Clean. No man’s land. _Synthetic_ , but not unpleasant.

A memory came to him unbidden, overheard in the saloon as he’d spooned a cup of gray paste: _You ever_ _cut one open? Those toasters’re fulluh spunk. Fuck, if I could afford me one, there’d be more where that came from._ Ferguson had said that. Will avoided Ferguson when he could. Ferguson, and everyone else of late.

Will placed the sectional of flesh aside. It would mend once replaced, similar to human healing bar the risk of infection. Beneath was a hatch, a glossy plate sculpted to look like the human spine. Will inserted a pen into the die and the plate released with a soft whir. That too is removed and set aside, revealing an annular port surrounded by three red indicator lights. Will rooted around in a tool chest adjacent until he found a T5 cable, still factory sealed, and secured it with a push and twist. The port lights flickered green as it locked into place. The other end was affixed to his PDA. A few minutes of silent prodding, and operations were fully restored. Hannibal slumped, craned his neck as if to relieve a cramp, and looked over his shoulder at him, expression soft. Blinking, breathing, or at least pretending to.

“Thank you,” Hannibal said, a la accent and natural cadence in place of stilted answers.

“I didn’t do it for you.”

Hannibal quirked his lips, a microexpression that was disturbingly human, and said, “Even so. You can imagine how unpleasant it is to have your free will stripped from you on a whim.”

“I wouldn’t call a murder investigation a whim, but I suppose it’s good you can’t feel, then.”

“Ah, you’re of _that_ school of thought.”

“The factual one, yeah.”

“Human emotions are the product of chemical reactions. Are my emotions invalidated by the fact that my chemical cocktail is slightly different?”

“Slightly? If I ordered bourbon and got a screwdriver, I’d probably be disappointed.”

“My design is chiefly inspired by the human form, flaws and all.”

Will grimaced and finally made eye contact. “Are all T5s this contrary, or are you custom coded?”

Hannibal’s expression changed. Hardened a degree. “As I said: inspired by the human condition.”

“You said form.”

“Both.”

“Are you fussy _and_ spiritual? Please don’t have an existential crisis in my care.”

“You’re quite abrasive. Is that why you work in the bowels of the ship? Were you sequestered away down here for your manners?”

“I—excuse me?” Was a synthetic seriously giving him lip? “I think we’ve gone off topic.”

“Yes,” Hannibal agreed with a slight purse of his lips. “Had I known the resident chief engineer would be such stimulating company, I might have engaged in illicit activities sooner.”

Will drew up straight, brows furrowed. “Are you... saying you _have_ done illicit things?”

“Don’t tell me you’re humorless too, Mr. Graham. You might be less human than I.”

“I’m not exactly accustomed to facetious SUs.”

“Perhaps it might help if you weren’t staring at the back of my head. And please, I prefer ‘synthetic persons.’ ”

Will slowly made his way around to stand before Hannibal, mindful of the trailing cable. Hannibal glanced at the PDA and attached wires, eyes thinning, then back at Will. “That’s better. So, am I _under arrest?_ ”

“No,” Will said, “not exactly. You were the last... _person,_ synthetic or otherwise, sighted with Williams.”

“That seems likely. I enjoy work in the galley immensely.”

“Kind of a peculiar hobby, seeing as how you don’t eat.”

“A vicarious pleasure, then. Had I not been... abruptly disengaged, I wouldn’t have been so discourteous as to not bring you breakfast.”

“Rubber eggs and potato paste? I’m good.”

Will stifled a snort when Hannibal openly scoffed, sharp nose wrinkling as if catching wind of something pungent. “Limited ingredients don’t excuse negligent food prep. I guarantee my ability not only to prepare an edible breakfast, but one to your liking. Judging by your BMI—forgive me, I have access to a great deal of information—you could do with skipping a few less meals.”

A soft laugh finally escaped him, barely more than a huff. “I’ll take that bet. In the meantime, I need dates and names. Play nice, and I might forget to disengage you again.”

Hannibal quirked his head, mouth widened with, if Will didn’t know better, a sincere smile. “By all means, Mr. Graham.”

“ _Will_ is fine.”

“ _Will,”_ Hannibal repeated. “What do you wish to know?”


	2. Two Heads

Will folded his arms and ground his teeth together, nostrils flared and brow knit. “I don’t do that anymore, _Jack_.”

Division Chief Crawford wasn’t hearing it: “You won’t be badged—”

“You’re right, I won’t.”

“—but consulting. We need a profile drawn up? You come in and let me pick your brain.”

“My brain”—Will’s lip curled—”isn’t up for lease.”

Crawford inclined his head and fixed him with a patriarchal glare. “Will. No one else can do what you do. You make jumps that can’t be explained.”

“The evidence is there. The evidence explains.”

“C’mon, Will. I know you don’t want to waste the rest of your career down in the dark, fixing glorified toasters. Help me. Do some real work. Do some good.”

“My work _is_ real work.”

“Look, I’ve read your file. I get it. That’s why I’m assigning you a partner.”

“I didn’t agree to—” Will sat forward. “A partner?”

“You can come in now, Doctor.”

“Doctor?” Will watched in disbelief as the door adjacent slid open, and Unit B5160-8 casually strolled into the office and took a seat beside him, tossing a leg over the other and sitting primly. Will gaped openly, slack-jawed, glasses drooping down his nose. “ _Doctor?_ ”

“That’s correct.” B5160-8— _Hannibal_ —turned to regard him, perceptive eyes giving him a cursory once-over. “Good evening, Will.”

Will broke the eye contact with a sharp jerk of his head, looking instead at Jack’s watch, which read, approximately, _too_ _-_ _early_ _-_ _for_ _-_ _this_ _-_ _shit_. “What’s going on, here?”

“I’m certified,” Hannibal assured him. “The Ministry of Synthetic Applications has permitted T5s to carry civilian and military-grade degrees for many years now. Statistical data shows synthetic persons working in medicine are significantly more effective than their human counterparts.” Hannibal’s expression tightened a degree. “Of course, we have to be—our margin of error is not as forgiving as yours.”

“Double standard.”

“One might call it that, yes.” Hannibal’s eyes flicked back to Will, thinned by a very convincing knock off of tempered delight—enough to ping Will’s empathy.

Will waved a hand dismissively through the air. “Right, but you failed to mention that this morning.”

“It didn’t seem pertinent. And you didn’t ask.”

“Forgive me for assuming ‘assignments’ included your extra merits.”

“You know what they say about assuming, Will.”

Will glowered. Something about the familiarity with which the T5 said his name made him squirm, followed by an intense autonomous sensory meridian response that left him chilly and covered in gooseflesh.

_What the hell._

Will took a deep breath and oriented himself, fortifying his mind in a way that was never necessary with T5 predecessors. Or other T5s, for that matter. Hannibal was . . . atypical. “If you’re suddenly asking, I’m assu—guessing...” Hannibal quirked his head, and it made Will want to shove him out of his chair. “...there’s been a development in the case.”

Jack sat back and laced his fingers, inscrutable as he studied Will—then he thumbed the holo-screen that made up the surface of desk. The lights dimmed, and projections jumped to life: forensics reports and an interactive...

“What is that?” Will asked, leaning closer. Hannibal mirrored him. The graphic juddered and flashed, unrecognizable.

“COME _ON.”_ Jack smashed his fist atop the desk. The frames dropped, scattered, then finally coalesced into a smooth object. He reclined and gestured at the hologram: _Some crazy shit, huh?_

“That’s a head, Jack.”

“Yes, it is.”

“...with T3 eye cores instead of human ones.”

Jack raised a brow.

Hannibal reached towards the disembodied head and expanded the image, pointing to a small, geometrical depression in the bottom of one mechanical eye. “Here. The only model with this particular feature was recalled early on in its production—couldn’t decode blue and green light, making the equipped units invariably, and quite literally, see red.”

“Color-blind robots?” Jack said.

Hannibal’s head jerked up. “Right.”

“Verger Systems dodged a class action lawsuit from hell with these.” Will shook his head. “Bought their way out, anyways. Manufactured before it was legal for synthetics to have superficial anonymity—at least civilian units. Now you can’t tell if the guy beside you is real or not.” Will’s sidelong glance at Hannibal was involuntary, but the T5 appeared serene. “A lot of money in replication, as the Verger empire well knows.”

“Infiltration,” Hannibal added, “sex,” watching Will. Will didn’t give him the satisfaction of a flinch. “A whole branch of psychology dedicated to human-synthetic relations. A lot of polarizing opinions going about the halls of the FBII these days.”

“Was the cook, Williams, robophobic?” Will suddenly asked, earning a peculiar micro-smile from from Hannibal.

“We didn’t ask,” said Jack.

“You should. Synthetics might not feel prejudice, but people do. Enough to, say, inspire the right pro-robo fanatic to commit murder.”

Jack nodded and scrubbed at his jaw, deep in thought. “Okay. Okay. So you’ll look at the rest of the data. You’ll help.”

“Jack—”

“Will, you’ve already given us a lead... and you’ve only seen one piece of the evidence.” Jack bent forward and added an impatient, “ _Please._ ”

“I think you already suspected at least that much. That’s why you’ve got a T5—uh, Hannibal, tagging along. To foster relations.” Will sighed. “You think this is a new Machinist murder.”

“Do you?”

Will glanced over glasses but didn’t respond.

“You know we only have a small window to catch this guy. We miss it, it could be years before he kills again. God knows how many ports we’ll dock inbetween. We can’t even be sure he’s on the _Quantico_ _**now**_ —we departed Palatine Station three days ago, and Williams has been missing for _weeks_.

“That’s not my problem, Jack,” Will said, rising.

“It IS your problem, Will.” Jack was standing now too, gripping the edge of his desk. “It’s a very real problem for everyone on this ship.”

“I have work to do,” Will said, adding over his shoulder as he exited the office: “Perfectly valid, _real_ work.”

“You’ll CHANGE YOUR MIND,” Jack shouted after him.

Three hours later, after familiarizing himself with the Williams case on his PDA, he did just that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Will, like every night, dreamed. He stood in a sparsely lit room devoid of sound and definition—until a harsh light exploded from an indeterminable sconce above. On the other side of a glass divider, the cone of sallow light hemmed in a body arranged in the center of a police lineup. He couldn’t distinguish the faces of the others, but the one, a woman, beneath the light stood in sharp relief.

Williams, eyes hollowed to make room for her new T2 implants. They fidgeted and rolled in their wet sockets, fixing illuminated irises—two red bangles with notched bottoms—on Will.

“See,” she said, neither question nor declaration. “S _ee.”_ And pointed.

Will looked, and he did see. He saw the black cable plugged into the soft center of his navel, flesh around the joint inflamed and red. He saw it, a Stygian umbilical cord trailing into a dark corner of the room. To—

 

 

* * *

 

 

Will roused to a hand on his shoulder, another pressed firmly to his forehead, and a clinical but coaxing voice.

“You’ve had a nightmare, Will. Look at me. That’s it...”

Bent close to him with his brow knit and lips pursed, Hannibal appeared almost concerned. But that couldn’t be right. “Why... why are you in my cabin?”

“I’ve brought breakfast.”

 


	3. Three Removed

Hannibal’s unexpected presence unsettled Will. He wasn’t accustomed to sharing his mornings with anyone or any _thing_. Transitioning from unconscious to conscious was a taxing ordeal; add to that night sweats, bad dreams, and a lengthy hypnopompic state. The last thing he wanted was an audience, especially a discerning one.

“Stop, I’m fine.” Will knocked Hannibal’s arm away.

Hannibal relented, but not altogether. “Your hand.”

“What?” Will reflexively held up his hands, inspecting them. “Oh.”

“Has this happened before?” Hannibal took Will’s rigid hand in his. “Is it just the ring finger?”

“No—it’s nothing. My hand locks up sometimes. Probably from work. Need to get a brace.”

“I don’t think so,” Hannibal said. He lifted Will’s hand, pivoting it at the wrist. “What did you dream about?”

“I don’t—” Will stared at the far wall, perplexed, then noticed the tray situated on his desk nearby, with its smaller platter and brushed steel cover. There was a matching thermos. “Please tell me that’s coffee.”

“From the administrative galley.”

“The _real_ coffee?”

“Tell me about your dream.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because,” Hannibal said after a breath, “you’re holding a gun.”

Will looked at his hand again and realized Hannibal was right. He could imagine the grip in his palm, finger braced against the trigger guard. His hand had started to come back online, but he saw Hannibal’s point.

“I used to be a cop.”

“Your injury—were you dreaming about your attacker? Or would it be more accurate to say your victim?”

Will jerked his hand back. “Jack told you?”

“After you cleared me, I took it upon myself to attain your file”—Will opened his mouth, ready to argue—”but don’t worry. I’m not at liberty to share the information.”

“What’s your clearance?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you that either.”

“You were never a suspect—Jack was just covering his ass.”

“Procedure, I’m afraid.”

“So you know about...” Will raised his arm again.

“I know that a wrist brace won’t do you any good. Do you usually have trouble with your prosthetic?”

“No—only recently.”

Hannibal’s hand started towards Will’s shoulder. “May I?”

Will hesitated, then said, “No point in keeping it a secret now.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

Hannibal rolled up the sleeve of Will’s white tee until a hypertrophic scar, a pink line that encircled his entire bicep, came into view. Will jolted some as Hannibal traced it with a thumb, humming thoughtfully.

“Not the best work I’ve seen.”

“It’s a hack job, I know.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Will let out a dry laugh. “I would.”

“Ever think of upgrading? Your model is obsolete.”

“No, never.”

“When did you last have it calibrated?”

Will leaned away and smoothed his sleeve back into place. “I can’t remember. I’m not worried about it.”

“If your nervous system rejec—”

“I said it’s fine, _Doctor._ ” Will threw his feet over the side of the bed and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Looking somewhere near Hannibal’s face, he asked with an irritated falsetto,“ Not that I mind the room service, but why are you _in_ my room, again?”

“Your vital signs showed you were in distress.”

Will’s head whipped around. He watched Hannibal unscrew the thermos and pour a cup of hot coffee, before gently pushing it into Will’s serviceable hand. “You were checking my bio-metrics? That’s personal.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you,” Hannibal said, donning a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “since you do not regard me as a person. You might think of me as a very exorbitant external hard drive. Or a PDA with a versatile chassis.”

“That’s not... Stop generalizing. You know what I mean.” The implication frustrated Will, the truth of it notwithstanding.

Hannibal’s gaze felt like a leaden weight.

“I know enough. Will, I am your partner now. Jack has tasked me to look after your well-being.”

Will huffed, lips quirked into a wry smile. “Can’t ride into battle on a broken pony.”

“Are you a broken pony, Will?”

He flexed and exhibited (most of) his fingers. “Not anymore.”

“I’m not referring to the physical form. You don’t like eye contact, do you?”

“Too distracting.”

“What do you see?”

See. See? “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Would you like to eat?”

“All right." Hannibal started towards the desk but Will caught his sleeve cuff. "I’ll get it. You’re not my butler.”

Hannibal deferred with a step backwards as Will bounced out of bed and hobbled over to his desk, falling into the chair. He was shocked to find the eggs not at all wilted or discolored, and the sausage tasted almost like home. “This is delicious,” He said before he could help himself.

Hannibal smiled, and this time it did reach his eyes—every delicate winkle beside them as supple and intricate as any human’s.

“Whatever this is,” Will said, swallowing. “Let’s just keep it professional.”

“God forbid we become friendly.”

Will finished his food with enthusiastic bites and began his morning ablutions, glancing sidelong at Hannibal as he retrieved a clean pair of underwear and a uniform. “You can go.”

“I don’t mind. Time waits for no man, but does for me.”

“Uh...” Will looked behind him at the frosted partitions that ensconced his bathroom and shower cubicle. “It’s a little... disconcerting.”

“Ah. I presumed you wouldn’t take notice of me.”

Will frowned. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“What is that?” Hannibal said with mild interest.

“Ridicule.”

“What reason would I have?”

Will thought about that. _None_ , and yet he felt indignity smeared on the air all around them.

“I don’t know,” Will said at last, then stripped down without ceremony and disappeared into the bathroom. He thought Hannibal might have stayed, might have watched his fractured image through the glass while he washed, but when he stepped out of the bathroom again, he was gone.

 

  


* * *

  


  


Will, Hannibal, Price, Zeller, and Katz made a circle around the body in the autopsy room.

“We found the body in one of envirospheres, of all places. Mostly intact, except—”

“The eyes,” Will interjected.

“And the heart.”

“The heart?”

“Yeah,” said Zeller. “Gone. Meaning, we don’t know where it is.”

“Scooped right out,” Price added. “Along with the eyes. Oh, but... we found those.”

“Almost no trace evidence. And the time of death? Four hours before the body was found.” Katz stepped up beside Will and crossed her arms. “Guessing the guy that called it in won’t be enjoying any R&R for a while.”

“Williams was missing for weeks.” Will angled his head towards her, eyes downcast.

“Missing, but not dead,” Katz said. “Keeping a hostage on a ship without drawing any attention is no small feat. No signs of a struggle. The unsub made an incision here, at the C4 vertebrae,” she said, pointing to Williams’ neck. “Completely severed.”

“Quadriplegia.”

“Besides the enucleation and missing heart, everything else is in order. The uh... amputations were performed while she was still alive,” Zeller said.

“An effective means of restraint,” Hannibal mused, impressed.

“Can you imagine?” Price.

Zeller squinted at Price, but before he could comment, the door into the autopsy room pinged and opened. Jack Crawford strolled over to Will’s side.

“Well?”

“I need a minute.” Will exhaled and squared his shoulders. “Been a while.”

“All right,” Jack said, looking at everyone in turn. “Give the man some space.”

Zeller raised an apprehensive brow but obliged, dragging a curious Price along with him. Katz lingered, managing half a head shake before Jack's scrutiny shut it down, then followed suit. Jack leaned uncomfortably close and said, “Take as long as you need,” then filed out behind them. Hannibal exited last, eyes bright above a soft smile. There was something nuanced there, behind his eyes, but there wasn't time enough to translate it. Hannibal was gone.

Alone with Williams at last, he closed his eyes and gathered the pieces in his mind.

He saw her, face slack, sleeping. Her breath slow and even. A coma?

The reconstruction changed. She was awake, alive. Her wide eyes tracked Will as he moved. She didn’t move, though she was not bound.

“First I take your eyes, expertly severing the muscle and optic nerve. I place them in your paralyzed hands.” The eyes stared blindly from their perch, bathed in ambient light from the surrounding holo-screen. “I give you new eyes.” He popped the T3 cores reverently into either socket. They slid into place with a wet squelch. “The envirosphere shows you the sublime scene of the ocean, rendered in extraordinary detail. But you cannot see the blue of the cresting waves as they break. For you, it is a sea of blood.” Will heard the ocean’s violence, loud between his ears. Deafening. “Last, I take your heart; I assure you that I will put it to better use.”

The reconstruction changed. Williams was dead. The ocean was beautiful.

“This is my design.”

Will opened his eyes and sucked air into his lungs.

“It’s him.”

  



	4. Four Your Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is consistent chapter length? I don't know. No beta. Let me know if something is structurally or grammatically insane. I need to give this a few days before I edit more. Comments are life.

MREs had come a long way since the colonization of space, but there was no explaining that to Beverly Katz. “You just squirrel them away in your cabin to dodge the galley,” she’d said, which was true. Then: “One dinner date won’t kill you,” which was probably also true, but Will wasn’t exactly up for a field test. Still, if the other option was hanging back with Jack. . .

The administrative galley was significantly nicer than its sister saloon below. It spanned a good square footage of the inner deck of the gravity ring, walls plugged with generous portholes that made him dizzy if he stood too close. On the other side of the barrier, stars drifted lazily, the local sun creeping into view when the ring completed a rotation. Interactive displays—discreet strips at the center of durable, transparent tables fixed to the deck’s sole—advertised menu items and other amenities. A row of food dispensaries occupied a corner, doling out meals for the frugal or financially irresponsible. A gaggle of trainees approached them with forlorn expressions. The rest of the crowd was seated or ordering fresh prep from the front where an SU in chef’s whites enthusiastically served the day’s special. The lewd doodle on the side of the SU’s metallic head was (mostly) scrubbed clean. Wouldn’t be long before another took its place, laws against defacing government property notwithstanding.

He tried to imagine a would-be artist vandalizing Hannibal in the same way. Hannibal's subtly scandalized expression.

"What're you smiling about?" Beverly Katz asked, startling Will out of his devious woolgathering as she wedged herself into the booth across from him. She squeezed a packet of what was supposed to be Sriracha sauce on a pile of what was supposed to be . . .  No one knew, exactly.

He winced as the red paste dropped onto an amorphous blob of starch. “Does it help?”

“Wanna try it?” Beverly tossed a packet at him.

Will shook his head, watching as Beverly maneuvered her biodegradable tray and doused the rest of the dubious sludge that passed for civilian repast. At least they weren’t on military-grade VitaPaste. Minimally processed foodstuffs was a luxury. The _Quantico_ only ever skirted deep space, so it was kept stocked from ports within the system. Beyond that, it was every vessel for itself.

“Don’t like pho?”

“This is cheaper.” She shrugged. “You?”

“Cheaper.” Will mashed his spoon into the rubbery patty of “pork” on his tray, watching with mild disgust as the meat resumed its reconstituted mold. “We’re in the same pay grade. Technically, we can both afford fresh prep."

“Maybe you can. My creds went neg last month.”

“How’d that happen?”

“Bad sitcoms and their exorbitant collections. The rest is put aside for Gomorrah.”

“Satellite cities are tourist traps.”

“And I’ll be effectively trapped there for a month at the end of this tour, gambling and sipping fuzzy navels. Anyways, what’s your excuse? Besides being anti-social.”

“That’s about it.”

Beverly leaned in. “Don’t get used to it, now that Jack’s got your number.”

“Once we catch the Machinist, I’m done.”

“Uh-huh.”

Will stabbed his cardboard meat and shot Beverly a look.

“What. You don’t exactly have the best track record with Jack.”

“He can be persuasive.”

“Pushy.”

“I guess.”

Beverly tapped her spork against the side of her tray, expression softening. “Would you tell me. If something was up?’

“Would you?”

“If you asked? Yeah.”

Will searched his hands for an answer. “I—”

Will spotted Hannibal striding towards them, startled for the second time that day by just how mundanely human the SU looked in civilian clothes. Well, mundane wasn’t quite the right word. More than one head turned to watch him. He could almost hear Price murmuring, reverently, _Hate to see you leave, but love to watch you go._

“Ms. Katz. Will.”

“Ugh, just call me Beverly. Or Bev. Lee. Anything but Ms. Katz. Ms. Katz is a very cynical old woman that owns too many ceramic clowns.”

Will coughed on a bite of mystery patty and cleared his throat. “So what did Jack have to say?”

“A great deal.”

“And?”

Hannibal looked between them. “More about you than the case.”

“That bad?”

“I respected your privacy. And will now do so again."

Will frowned and rubbed at his eyes. “Better late than never.”

“I thought we might discuss the details—of the case, and otherwise—this evening. I have some theories.”

“I’m sure you do. Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the future.”

“I hope that isn’t a wholly unpleasant development.”

Will stared. Not a fleeting glance, but genuine eye contact. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Will opened his mouth, but Beverly toed his shin. He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Don't forget to knock.”

“Knock? Oh. I thought we might meet in the public gardens. Studies show that isolation from native habitats significantly increases the likelihood of depression. When were you last planetside?”

“Didn’t realize you were a psychiatrist too—” Another nudge from Beverly.

Hannibal’s eyebrows lifted. “I am, actually.”

“Seriously?”

“Quite.”

“Doctor of anything else you’re not telling me?”

“I’ll meet you in the _Amorphophallus_ habitat.”

“The ones that smell like carrion?” Will asked around another mouthful. “ _No one_ goes there.”

“That’s rather the point.” Hannibal bowed his head, apologized (mostly to Beverly) for interrupting, and excused himself.

Will watched him go and, once Hannibal was out of sight, turned slowly back towards Beverly.

“Well that was fun,” she said.

“It’s not just me, right? He’s fussy.”

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” She scrunched her face up into an expression of theatrical concentration. “And he _has_ been spending a lot of time around you recently.”

“Better keep him away from Price and Zeller.”

“Too late!”

 

* * *

 

 

Alana stuck her head into Jack’s office. The door was retracted, so she knocked on the frame. Jack looked up over his reading glasses and waved her in, removing and folding them as she took a seat.

“You and Will are the only people I know that still wear glasses.”

“The difference being that I need them, and Will doesn’t.”

“Will does too. In his own way.” Alana smoothed her blouse and smiled cordially. “How is he?”

“Will? Not too happy I came calling. Not too happy I took the liberty of assigning him a babysitter.”

“Hannibal is a wonderful doctor and a wonderful companion.”

“And a psychiatrist,” Jack added, lacing his fingers together.

“That too.” Alana glanced at the false window, a matte screen, in Jack’s office. She couldn’t ever remember seeing it on. She looked back at Jack, lips pressed tightly together. “Hannibal will be whatever Will needs him to be.”

“I’m sure he will. The Bureau won’t look too kindly on employing an aberrant.”

“He’s not an aberrant, Jack. He’s . . .”—Jack raised his brows—”a little unorthodox. If Verger Corporation hadn't changed hands, we wouldn’t be in this situation. I’m not letting a little red tape stand in the way of helping Will.”

“Doesn’t sound like you.”

“You don’t let red tape stop you either. Not when you know you’re right.”

“Hmm.” Jack sat back, rocking. “Will doesn’t know?"

“Hannibal will tell him. When he’s ready.”

They looked at each other, two stalwart pieces on opposite sides of the board.

Jack broke the silence first: “And how’s Margot?”

“Busy.”

“I bet she is. I _bet_ she is. Good to have friends in high places."

Alana frowned, carmine lips bent sharply down.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Will was at the antechamber to the gardens when his hand seized. Pain lanced through his arm and back, leaving him cold and perspiring. A civie couple exiting the area parted to give him a wide berth, no questions asked. The contractures hadn’t been bad at first, but the episodes were increasing in duration. And intensity.

Will found Hannibal standing by a tall carrion flower (oh God, the smell...), hands clasped at the small of his back. He turned before Will made it within five feet of him, eyes drawn immediately to Will’s bent arm and unnaturally splayed fingers. Will supposed he preferred it over avoidance and empty platitides. 

“Are you in pain?”

“Not much. It’ll pass.”

“Exacerbated by stress, I imagine.” Hannibal cupped his damp forehead, and Will scowled at the passers-by glancing their way. “You’re warm.”

“I run hot.”

“Have you been to the medical ward?”

“Yeah. I’m fine, really. Can we just—”

“ _Will.”_

“I’m not a child _.”_

Hannibal’s eyes thinned, lips pursed. “It is unfortunate about the botanical gardens, but might I suggest an alternative for the evening?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal’s cabin was an unexpectedly intimate space. Not a suite, but thrice the size of Will’s studio model. Retractable dividers that seconded as digital monitors provided optional privacy between the kitchen, living area, and bed and bath. Only the en-suite divider was pulled, screen depicting the rainy streets of a Byzantine city Will couldn’t place. Historical Florence? He’d seen similar antique masonry before. The utilitarian kitchen—Will immediately thought of an operating room—was furnished with appliances necessary for minimal food prep, compact but a deal more versatile than the single Mini Meal for reconstituting condensed foodstuffs that made up Will’s “kitchen.”

Where the kitchen was all matte black and metallic geometry, Hannibal’s living area was washed in cobalt and Bordeaux, framed by clean, organic lines. Adjustable track lighting cut soft shapes out of the contemporary furniture—minimal materials and color with a distinctly sturdy, abstract architecture. Two squat chairs, a curling chaise, and glass coffee table occupied a conservative but well-maintained space at the center. The dim lighting and liquid curves created the illusion of motion, and Will had to blink a few time to be sure the room wasn’t beginning to revolve.

“SUs don’t usually have their own cabins. Or salary.”

“I’m very fortunate.” Hannibal took Will’s jacket. “And I have generous associates.”

“You mean your commissioner?”

“No. As you’re aware, I am contracted by the FBII now.”

“It’s not unheard of, commissioners leaving family SUs inheritance. Frowned upon, but there’s no law against it.”

“There is no law against friends and associates either.”

Something in Hannibal’s tone made Will shrink a little. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Hannibal regarded him quietly. Then he smiled and extended a hand. “The chaise, I think.”

Will had almost forgotten.

“Now it really does feel like therapy.”

Hannibal laughed softly: a low rasp that eased the hard line of Will’s shoulders, and said, “Not that sort, I’m afraid. Your shirt too.”

Hannibal waited patiently behind him as Will pulled his undershirt over his head and draped it across the backrest of the chaise. Will quirked a brow as Hannibal retrieved, folded, and set the garment aside.

“I apologize for the informality. This would be easier with a proper table.”

“Uh, it’s fine. It’s not like I’m paying you. Unofficial etiquette for an unofficial client.”

“For the best. I’m not officially a masseuse.”

“No,” Will said, overwhelmed. “You’re a doctor _. Double_ doctor.”

“I’m an excellent physical therapist. That will benefit you more than my being a masseuse.” Hannibal’s head tilted. “You don’t do well with touch.”

“What gave it away?” Will tried not to square his shoulders against Hannibal’s perception. He could handle touch before truth. Tried, and failed.

“You’re entrusted with the cores of synthetic persons—some would argue their souls—while you work,” Hannibal said, inscrutable, affect flat. “Turnaround is fair play.”

“Doctors and engineers aren’t interchangeable.”

“In more way than they aren’t.”

Will felt the fizzle of animosity in the air between them again. Or, at least, he imagined it.

“How long have you done this? Medicine, I mean. The physical kind.”

“Since I was deployed as a field medic on Vega.”

“After your commissioner passed away?”

“Tell me if there is too much pain.” Will grunted as Hannibal’s fingers hooked into his shoulder. “It is typical for the military to draft disowned synthetic persons.”

“Vega . . . was bad. I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t _look._ ”

“I’d rather you asked.”

“You respect my privacy and I respect yours?”

Hannibal hummed and fell silent, focusing on the task at hand. Will focused on Hannibal’s steady breathing, willing his own to follow suit. To his surprise, it did.

“You’re good,” Will mumbled, shoulders sagging as Hannibal’s fingers worked their way down his back, pleasantly firm. “Not that I have a basis for comparison.”

Hannibal cupped Will’s elbow and steadied his shoulder where the prosthetic was wired into nerve and bone, umbrium—colloquially called _black glass_ for its dark, semi-transparent quality—and a delicate network of synthesized fibers seamlessly fused with human tissue.

“Few professional massages? I assume you were assigned PT after your injury, but this will be quite a bit different.” Hannibal guided his arm this way and that, exercises Will knew were frequently used to treat rotator cuff injuries.

“None—professional or otherwise.”

Will bristled when a hand drifted to a pectoral, feeling. “Your shoulder and chest have some atrophy. You favor your prosthetic, despite that it is far more capable than your birth arm. You neglected your physical therapy after surgery?”

“No. I did it. Six months.”

“Then the problem is psychological. Have you considered VR therapy?” Hannibal circled around and stood in front of Will, brow furrowed as he continued to inspect Will’s shoulder. Will didn’t argue the point—not with his visibly deteriorated right deltoid and pectoral. It was a minute difference, but a disparity all the same. “VR therapy has successfully treated an assortment of ailments. Phantom pain.” Hannibal’s eyes flicked up, looking at him. “PTSD.”

“Can we just . . . start with this?”

“If you prefer,” Hannibal said. “Lie on your stomach.”

Will hesitated but obliged. The faux suede felt good against his bare skin, diffusing excess heat from his body. He let out a breath and focused on the hypnotic throb of the track lighting, soft teal that waxed and waned. The muted chamber music emanating from a camouflaged speaker. Hannibal’s unrelenting but grounding fingers. A groan slipped free, and he was too loose to care by the time it happened. Was half asleep when he heard a cap pop and felt Hannibal straddle his legs.

“Uh . . .”

“Better angle,” Hannibal explained, demonstrating with oiled hands on Will’s lower back, and it _was_ better. Will figured it made sense—Hannibal had the strength of ten men.

Will turned his head into the single throw pillow he’d commandeered as the force of Hannibal’s fingers pressed him into the chaise.

“Too much?”

“Nnn-no, s’good.” He was going to be sore tomorrow morning. The _good_ kind of sore.

It wasn’t just the massage. He hadn’t been touched, not in a way he could enjoy, in a very long time. He’d never been good at relationships to begin with—not when potential suitors were emotional dead falls that threatened to suffuse him. Getting lost in another personality was fine for a night, but for life? Hell, for a week? Never mind the fact that he spent most of his time aboard the _Quantico._ Something was different about Hannibal, though. He wasn’t an emotional void—safe—like earlier models; neither was he rough water. Not tumultuous, but a stream. Was it because T5s were so life like? No, Will had encountered them before and hadn’t had an issue. That didn’t make sense. Psychiatrist and surgeon . . . was he providing low-key psychiatry?

 _No,_ Will thought, feeling Hannibal’s weight shift against the backs of his thighs, _there was nothing low-key about that._

_Not that Hannibal is even a friend. Not that this is . . ._

“Is it easier?”

“W-what?”

“Being receptive to touch. Knowing what I am.”

Will said nothing, and Hannibal didn’t press—not for answers, anyways.

Will became suddenly aware of himself, of Hannibal. Hannibal’s touch gentled when Will drew his arms defensively closer to his sides. Not a platonic massage, but inquisitive fingertips, gossamer up the line of his spine. Will shuddered when he felt the hair at the nape of his neck disturbed. The chaise creaked as Hannibal leaned closer. Will felt his breath.

“Don’t be afraid to ask for things.”

“Get off.” He needed to go. Now.

A few seconds elapsed in which Will wasn’t sure Hannibal was going to move. Then, finally, his weight retreated. Will didn’t sit up immediately—he couldn’t—but Hannibal politely busied himself with stowing away the oil and washing his hands. By the time he returned, Will was pulling on his uniform jacket and striding towards the exit.

 

* * *

 

  
Hannibal propped his PDA on his thigh as he reclined in bed, wet hair combed back after an unnecessary but indulgent shower. A small data table displayed Will’s live bio-metrics. Beside that, a live video feed. He tapped with one hand, glass of Shiraz cradled in the other, and adjusted the zoom with a thumb and index finger. It hadn’t been difficult to access Will’s room.

Hannibal watched as Will touched his naked shoulder, also fresh from the shower, and sat on the edge of his slim cot. Will lay back, thumb flirting with the hem of nondescript boxers, and finally turned over onto his side and remained still. His metrics did not. There was a spike in his heart rate, his neural oscillation, until both slowed with rest. They would spike again once the night terrors set in.

Hannibal enjoyed reviewing them every morning over fresh prep and coffee.

 


End file.
